Christmas At The Tudor Court: The Queen's Christmas Summons / The Warrior's Winter Bride

To her amusement, his cheeks actually turned a bit red and he turned his back to strip off the torn, stained shirt. For a moment she could only stare, amazed, at the beauty of his sun-darkened skin lightly touched with the pink of those incongruous blushes. Her giggles faded when she saw the way he winced in pain at the movement and she hurried over to touch his arm.

‘Here, sit down, Juan, let me look at your shoulder,’ she said.

She could tell he was still wary, holding himself stiff under her touch, but he slowly sat down on the blankets she had arranged by the fire. He held his back very straight as she leaned closer to study the gash on his shoulder.

The wound was not as angrily red as it had been, but she saw she did need to remove the rest of the splinters and dress it with the poultice if it was not to poison his blood. She also realised he must have found the water cistern and bathed, for his gold-touched skin was clean and smooth to her touch, and he smelled of sweet rainwater with a hint of citrus.

He was really very, very handsome, with his sharply carved features, his strong jaw and blade-straight nose, and those sea-green eyes. His body, too, was tall and leanly muscled, like that of an ancient warrior.

Alys shook away the strange spell being close to him seemed to weave around her. She could not afford such distractions now. She quickly rinsed a rag in clean water and carefully dabbed at the dried blood that had seeped around his wound.

‘What is this place?’ he asked. ‘Part of the castle?’

‘Nay, it is the old abbey. It was abandoned long ago, in King Henry’s time, and most of it is in ruins. It was dark when we came here, I am sure you couldn’t see it well.’

‘An abbey?’

‘This was the old dairy and somehow it has survived with its roof intact. I think the shepherds use it sometimes, when they drive their flocks towards Galway City.’

‘How do you know about it?’

Alys carefully dabbed her paste of herbs on the cleaned wound. His shoulder tensed under her touch and his skin felt like steel under silk. Distracting again. ‘I came here with my mother when I was a child. The monks had large herb gardens and we would gather some of the remains, or we would sit on the old walls and she would tell me tales.’

‘Tales of Spain?’

Alys thought of those sunny spring days, with the light flooding through the empty windows and the scent of mint on the air. ‘Sometimes. She said it was always sunny and warm there, most unlike Ireland. Mostly fairy stories, or tales of old kings and warriors, though.’

‘Will she find you here?’

Alys bit her lip as she wound the bandage tighter. ‘Nay. She died many years ago.’

Juan reached up and gently touched her hand, making her skin turn warm at his touch. ‘I am sorry.’

‘It—it was a long time ago,’ Alys stammered, confused at the feelings his touch awoke. ‘Though I fear my father still mourns her greatly.’ She slid her hand away to tie off the bandage. ‘Some of the stories she did tell me were ghost tales. She loved those. I always wondered if the Spanish had such drama in their blood.’

‘Ghost tales?’

‘Of the monks who once lived here. On some nights, when the moon is bright, they go in procession, chanting through the old cloisters. Some of the maids say they have even seen lights up here, moving along the cliffs.’

‘Have you ever seen them?’

Alys shook her head as she finished her nursing ministrations. ‘Never. My mother said I was too practical to see the world beneath our own, that I was too concentrated on my everyday tasks.’

He smiled at her, and it was meltingly beautiful. ‘And are you? Practical, Alys?’

Alys smiled back. She couldn’t seem to stop herself. His smile looked like something she had been waiting to see all her life and she wanted to fall into it and be lost. ‘I suppose I am, though I don’t mind a pretty song or two when the jongleurs come to Dunboyton.’ She offered him the clean shirt. ‘Did the ghosts come to visit you last night?’

‘Not yet, but I have no fear of them. I grew up in my father’s house, which was also once an abbey, and there were ghosts aplenty there. Here cannot be much different.’

He tried to slip the shirt over his head, but he was still moving stiffly and the sleeve caught. Alys moved to help him and felt the soft brush of his hair, the warmth of his body against her. ‘Have you been to many places since you left your father’s house?’

He smiled up at her again, but now it was rueful. ‘Many lands indeed. The Low Countries, France, Portugal...’

‘I fear I have never left here. My father was sent here as governor when I was a child. Dunboyton is beautiful, but rather small, I fear, and my knowledge of the world must come from books and the stories of visitors.’

He looked into the fire as he tied the laces of the shirt, a wistful frown replacing his smile. ‘I would have liked a real home, I think.’

‘And I think I would have liked a bit of adventure.’ Alys took up the wine and food from the basket and held out the loaf of bread. ‘In exchange for my help, Señor Juan, I insist you tell me all about Lisbon and Paris. What they wear there, what they eat, their buildings and shops...’

Juan laughed. ‘So tales are your price, my rescuer? One story for every bite of cheese?’

‘If they are good stories, I may even bring you a pie or two. But you must still eat slowly and carefully. I don’t want my efforts to come to nothing if you become ill again.’

‘I am quite sure I will find my health quickly again, thanks to you.’ He peered at her curiously as he sliced off a bit of cheese and slid it past his sensual lips. ‘You are surely an angel.’

Alys turned away, flustered. ‘I am sure my household would disagree with you. They say I am too bossy.’ In fact, it would soon be time for her to oversee dinner. She poured out a measure of wine and mixed in a spoonful of valerian to help him rest. ‘Here, you should drink this. I have to go now and see to my father’s dinner, or I shall be missed. But I will be back later to see if you are well.’

‘And to claim your first story?’

Alys laughed. ‘And that. It had best be an amusing one.’

She gathered up her baskets and hurried out of the old dairy, making sure the door was firmly shut and no one watched her. It was quiet on the path along the cliffs that led back to Dunboyton, giving Alys too much time to think about Juan. About how shockingly handsome he was beneath the beard and sun-brown of his time at sea, like no one else she had ever seen in real life. He was like a hero or ancient warrior in a sonnet, all elegant, quiet strength. He spoke very well, too, his words polished and educated, his accent fine. She couldn’t help but wonder more about his past. Where had he really come from? What had driven him on to those ships? He held many, many secrets, she was sure of that.

She knew she should be frightened of him. Certainly she should tell her father about him immediately. But something, some part of a fairy instinct her mother had claimed she lacked, told her that his secrets were not evil ones. He was a complicated man, yes, but not a wicked one.

At least she hoped he was not, that her trust in him was not misplaced. And he had called her his angel, in a sweet, wondering tone she had never heard before. She liked him thinking of her in that way. The memory of it made her laugh and then blush when she thought of how warm and smooth his bare skin was when she touched it. Aye, she was in danger of being overtaken by her emotions, for the first time in her life, and she could not let that happen. She had to be very careful, indeed, and find out for sure what Juan’s true purpose was there. She prayed with all her might it was a good one. It looked as if her whole future depended on it.

* * *

When Alys was gone, the small room, which had felt so warm and welcoming while she was there, seemed to close around him. Yet he dared not go outside, not until he was strong enough to face any foe again.

John opened the door a crack and stared out into the night, and somehow its starlit beauty, its silence, made him recall too sharply the scenes of the past weeks. The bloody battles, the freezing, starving days on the ships, watching poor Peter—and so many other men—die. If not for Alys, he would be among them. He would be mouldering in a hastily dug grave on the beach and his quest to restore the Huntley name would be at a terrible end.

Aye, he owed her so very much. She declared she was not an angel, but he knew differently. When he had opened his eyes to see her face, to look into her dark eyes and hear her low, sweet, reassuring voice, it was like being raised into the bright light once more. He had a new chance at life, if he could make it safely to court, and he owed it all to her.

He thought of the way she took such care of his wounds, her cool, calm demeanour, her gentle smile. She had saved a man, a stranger, and taken care of him with no sign of fear. Such remarkable courage and kindness, such as he had never seen before in either woman or man. Aye, of course she was an angel.

He thought of foolish Peter and the letters he had written so fervently, even in his final days. John wondered if it was a woman Peter wrote to, a woman who had stolen his heart, who shared the cause that made a martyr of him. It would explain his worshipful expression, his adamant insistence that he would see the person he wrote to once more.

Aye—perhaps a woman had once helped Peter, as Alys had helped him. The thought gave him pause. He knew he could not lose his heart so fervently, or at all. His work was still incomplete. But he did want Alys to know how she had helped him. How she had changed him.

He reached for a small block of wood from the stack of fuel for the fireplace, and studied its angles and shape carefully. He had once spent long hours waiting for battle, or aboard ship, in carving, he was sure he could remember how to do it now. This piece of wood would work, and it would definitely help pass the time as he recovered his full strength and plotted his return to court.

It would also remind him of Alys in the long, quiet hours until then.

Chapter Seven

Alys made her way along the path to the abbey the next morning, carrying a large hamper of fresh supplies. No one had noticed her slipping out of the castle not long after first light. Bingham’s men had all marched off to find more shipwrecked sailors further down the coast and all seemed quiet again. But Dunboyton was not yet quite back to normal. Everyone was still too unsettled, too excited by the violent interruption to their daily routines. The maids still cried into their aprons, the pages still carried around kitchen knives ‘just in case’ and everyone jumped at the merest loud noise.

The maids would no doubt be relieved not to have their lady watching them as they whispered together over their kettles and dusting cloths instead of working. And she had not seen her father all night or morning, he was shut up in his library with his steward and the captain of his guards. There was no one to see her pack up wine and food, gather up bandages and herbs from the stillroom. At least she truly hoped no one had.

Alys glanced over her shoulder and saw nothing but the sweep of the empty meadows down to the cliffs and the sea beyond. The great gale that wrecked the ships had blown away, but there was still a chill to the wind and there were no fishing boats putting out to sea. Most of the villagers, along with Dunboyton’s household, stayed behind their locked doors for the time being.

She hoisted her basket higher in her arms and turned towards the path to the abbey. Once again, like old friends, the spires against the grey sky greeted her. A warm sense of anticipation rose up in her at the sight. She looked forward to seeing Juan, to checking that her nursing skills were working, to see if she could coax more stories from him. He owed her a few more tales; after all, that was their bargain.

And, if she was honest, it was not just the prospect of nursing that made her steps grow quicker as she reached the edge of the crumbling cloister wall. She looked forward to seeing him again, to hearing the secret smile in his voice as he talked to her, the way his green eyes glowed.

Life at Dunboyton was not a bad existence, but Alys admitted it was a quiet one. The same people, the same tasks, every day. Juan was like no one else she had ever met. He was a complete puzzle, one she wanted to fit together so very much. She wanted to know more about his Spanish mother, whether she had told him tales of her homeland as Alys’s had to her. The feeling of belonging to two different worlds was one they shared. Alys could not see things as everyone else did, as English and Spanish and thus different, for she knew they were not. Did Juan feel the same?

And, if she was being doubly honest with herself, she had to admit that she was deeply attracted to her shipwrecked sailor. The thought of giggling over something so frivolous in the midst of such a terrible time made her chide herself, laugh at herself for her silliness. Who would have thought dull, practical Alys could sigh so over a pair of lovely green eyes.

She hurried through the open, sky-lit sanctuary and found the dairy. She was almost afraid he would have gone, but then she saw the silvery smoke snaking from the chimney. She knocked carefully at the door, and called out, ‘’Tis Lady Alys.’ As much as she wanted to see him, she wanted no repeat of yesterday’s rough greeting when she surprised him.

The door cracked open and he stood before her. He smiled, making his eyes crinkle most invitingly, and held out his hand. She could tell with a glance that he looked better, his skin not so pale and his figure standing straighter, taller. ‘Lady Alys. I was afraid you might not come today. I have been watching for you.’

He had been watching for her? Did he...want to see her, as she wanted to see him? She felt her cheeks turn warm at the thought and she set quickly about her tasks to hide her confusion. ‘I had to make sure breakfast was prepared for the household. They are so disordered, nothing seems to be getting done at all. I am sorry, you must be hungry.’

‘You did promise me a pie,’ he said teasingly. ‘I have been trying to come up with a story fine enough to deserve it.’

Alys brushed by him to the fireplace and he followed her. She was achingly aware of the heat of him, his tall strength right behind her. Pretending nothing was amiss, she knelt beside the hearth and started to unpack her basket. Beside her was his makeshift bed, a nest of tumbled blankets and pillows, and she tried not to imagine what he looked like lying there, at his ease beside the fire as the flames turned his bare skin to pure gold...

Silly girl, she chided herself. Her hands shook as she measured out her packets of herbs.

‘I am very comfortable here,’ he said. ‘In fact, I do not think I have ever been in such a comfortable place. The silence and peace all to myself is most wondrous.’

‘I am sure being packed into a ship for months at a time cannot provide much silence at all,’ she answered, handing him a serving of bread and cheese and pouring out some wine. She wondered where he had been before that ship, what kinds of lodgings he had known in Paris and Antwerp and Lisbon. Surely he was only being polite now; a makeshift pallet on a stone floor could not compare to fine Parisian chambers. Though he had made it cosy for himself. Besides the bed, there was a small milking stool he had found somewhere and the canvas sacking formed into draperies to soften the cold walls. There was also a small block of wood on the stool along with a fruit knife, it looked as if he was carving something.

‘What are you working on there?’ she asked.

He gave her a sheepish smile and swept the wooden object and its shavings under the edge of a blanket. ‘’Tis nothing. A bit of nonsense to pass the time. My carving skills are grown rusty, I fear.’

‘So you are an artist as well as a sailor?’ As well as a spy, mayhap? Her curiosity about him grew every time she saw him, discovered yet another half-hidden facet of this gorgeous man.

He laughed and his eyes crinkled again. It made him look so much younger, so much freer and happier. Alys found she longed to make him smile again, would do anything to see that facet of Juan once more. ‘I am neither artist nor sailor.’

‘Are you not? Then what are you?’

His laughter faded in an instant, faster than that storm blowing up from the sea. His changeableness was startling, almost frightening. He looked down to tear open the loaf of bread. ‘I am nothing at all, I suppose. A wanderer. A seeker.’

A seeker. Alys knew how that felt, even though she could seek only in books. To see, to know—it was tempting indeed. Perhaps that was what had drawn him to the ships, the need for adventure. She poured out more wine, including some for herself. ‘I suppose I could call myself a seeker, as well, though I cannot look for what I desire in the world as you can. I can only read of it. I envy you.’

He sat down beside her, their backs to the fire. Once again, he studied her closely with those brilliant eyes that seemed to mesmerise and capture, as if he sought out her secrets just as she sought his. He was much too easy to talk to, she knew she would have to carefully guard her words when he looked at her like that. ‘What do you seek in your books?’

Alys hesitated a moment before she spoke. ‘I’m not sure. I suppose I want to know what the world is really like beyond Dunboyton and the only way to find that is in books, and the tales my mother used to tell me. I want to see London, the churches and shops and palaces, but I would also like to know what the sea looks like beyond our bay. I’d like to see Spain, taste real oranges there, feel the sun on my face. And Paris—’ She broke off with a little laugh. ‘It must seem silly to you, who have actually seen all those things.’

He gave her a gentle smile. ‘The world outside this place does hold many beauties,’ he said. ‘But it can also be a cruel and ugly place, and it is lonely to see it by oneself.’ He reached out to softly touch a strand of loose dark hair that had fallen from its pins. Alys held her breath at his nearness, the warmth of his hand so close to her cheek. ‘I can see why your family would want to protect you, to keep that—that sweetness in your eyes.’

Alys swallowed hard and leaned away from his touch. She feared if she stayed there, looking into those eyes of his, she would lean into him instead and kiss him. She ached to know what his lips might feel like on her own and that was one thing she should never try. She turned away to unroll a pile of bandages and then roll them again. ‘Even Dunboyton can be filled with cruelty, as we saw all too clearly only days ago. If I knew more of the world—of how to shield myself—’ She broke off, overcome by the memory of those poor men on the beach. By how easily Juan could have been one of them.

He laid his hand against her arm, lightly, as if he feared she would break away. She did not. ‘Of course. It was most hideous. I didn’t mean to imply you were some sort of swooning maiden in a tower. You are obviously very brave, as well as kind. See how you help a stranger, at peril to yourself.’

Ah, but Juan was not just any stranger. Alys came to see that, fear that, more and more as she knew him. ‘You said you grew up in an English abbey.’

He looked surprised at the sudden change in topic, but he recovered quickly and smiled. She thought she glimpsed something in his eyes behind that smile, a flash of wariness. ‘So I did. My father’s estate. His grandfather bought it from King Henry.’

‘But you did not stay there.’

‘Nay, I left to study at Cambridge and then went to the Netherlands in a company of soldiers with my godfather.’

He fought for the English in the Netherlands? Alys wondered if her suspicions were right and he was a spy. But for whom? ‘And from there you went to Spain? To find your mother’s family, mayhap?’

He looked down, hiding those eyes from her as he crumbled the remains of the bread. ‘I have never known anything about my Spanish family. My understanding is that I have no living Spanish kin.’

It sounded unbearably sad, a tiny child left without his mother, without even a sense of where she came from or what kind of person she was. At least Alys had known and loved her mother, known something of Spain. ‘I am sorry. I am glad I did know my mother and stories about her family. I could imagine what it was like, even here in Ireland, though I will never see it for myself.’ She laughed. ‘I will probably never even see London, let alone Madrid! You are lucky in your travels.’

He flashed her a smile, but it looked sad. ‘I have never felt so fortunate. Always being in a different place is a very lonely life indeed.’

‘But an endlessly fascinating one, I am sure.’

‘I did say I would tell you some tales of my travels.’ He stared up at the painted ceiling for a moment. ‘Amsterdam, for instance. It is a city built on water, as Venice is, but the two are very different despite their canals. Venice is old, full of crumbling stones and ancient bridges, of mysterious eyes peering from behind shuttered windows. Amsterdam is clean and orderly, with barges going about their marketing business and tall, painted houses along every walkway. And Portugal...’

‘Is it as sunny as everyone says?’

‘It might be, but it’s hard to know, since the houses are built so close together. Their roofs almost touch on the streets overhead, blocking the light, until one comes to the river. Then, all the lanes open up on to wide wharfs and ships bound for every port wait at anchor to set sail for the New World, or mayhap for India.’

‘India.’ Alys sighed, thinking of silks and spices, and warm sunshine. She did have dreams of the royal court at London, which sometimes seemed as distant as India could be, but she thought there were more worlds to be seen than anyone could ever dream of. Amsterdam, Venice, Paris...

‘How many adventures you must have had,’ she said sadly.

He knelt down beside her next to the fire, watching her closely. He seemed to hide nothing from her now, his eyes clear, speaking of a sadness she could barely fathom.

‘Lady Alys,’ he said softly. ‘There were many reasons I was on that ship, but I am bound by my honour not to speak of them. I only want you to know that you and your father’s household have naught to fear from me. I will do nothing to harm you and never would have.’

Alys studied him very closely for a long, tensely silent moment. For that time, they seemed bound close together with shimmering, invisible cords that could not break. Their breath, their very heartbeats, seemed as one. ‘I—I think I always did know that. We do live in such a world of secrets, and as I said I know little of the lands beyond Dunboyton. But I do know that the Queen’s throne is not a steady one and she needs help from the shadows.’

He suddenly leaned back, away from her, and she glimpsed the surprise and suspicion on his face. Had she found out something, then? Guessed correctly about his work?

She quickly turned away. He still needed his bandages changed and she mixed up her herbal poultice with trembling hands. ‘How will you find your way to where you are going? After you have recovered your strength, of course.’

‘I will find some way, Lady Alys, never fear. And I will not burden you with my presence here long at all, I promise. I think I am strong enough to move now, thanks to you.’

She glanced back at him and saw that even sitting there talking to her, holding tight to his secrets, had tired him. His skin was pale again, his eyes dark-shadowed. ‘I vow you are not! You need more rest and good food. Here, sit here and let me look at your bandages, then you must have some of this spiced wine. It does strengthen the blood.’ Alys busied herself with those familiar tasks, the herbs and the bandages, to try to force away one desolate thought—Dunboyton would be even lonelier, even more dull, when he was gone.